Won't You Be My Neighbor?
by ShawnMcClean
Summary: This takes place a week after Season 2. Joe has set his sights on a new love interest, but complications, as they normally do, ensue. He's not alone to his own machinations anymore. Who knew Love could be such a difficult interference?


I couldn't help but wonder if you'd noticed me.

There was no way fate, as unpredictable, corny, and lovesick as it may be, would have me notice someone who was oblivious to my existence.

No. You saw me, just as I saw you.

I saw you that morning that you ran out in the rain to get the mail, wearing just your husband's t-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. I wondered how you felt being the sole provider of the mail when you had fully capable husband in the household who, from my very limited knowledge, appears to be unemployed. Not calling the guy a loser, but it seems that the least he could do was go get the mail.

Maybe I'm just old fashioned. I'd never make you go out in the rain in the morning to get the mail. I'd also never allow you to carry the groceries into the house by yourself. It's bad enough you're the one bringing home the bacon, but to literally be the one bringing in the bacon is sad, verging on sickening. I mean, no one as beautiful as you should be relegated to such a thing.

I know you feel the way I do. Sometimes I catch you looking out of the window over to my house with Love, and I can see the longing in your eyes. At first I wasn't sure if the longing was just for a better life, or if you were longing for me, but after our first meeting, I'm now quite sure it's the latter.

You were once again yanking plastic bags out of the trunk of your car. I wanted to help you. I knew you'd had a rough day simply because the bags you were carrying were from Trader Joe's. But you yourself were a part of the Trader Joe's boycott after the transgender woman filed a case against the company for allegedly not hiring her due to her transition. To any ignorant person, probably to your husband, that makes you a hypocrite. 'Let's boycott Trader Joe's for being intolerant bigots...until I have a bad day at work and don't feel like driving the 15 miles out of the way to get to a Kroger'. But not me. I know you better than that.

Unlike your husband, I've taken the time to understand who you are at your core. When your mail from VAMPCO was mistakenly placed in my mailbox, I learned that your name is Josephine Baker, undoubtedly a clever name in your mother's mind at the time. Maybe she was a fan of the African American actress because of her biopic that I've never seen, or maybe it was because Josephine Baker was a dancer.

That's it.

It was the whole dancer thing. Your mother, God rest her soul, was a dance teacher in Harlem, NY. Your IG stories were filled with classic videos of your mother in her prime. Your Instagram is captivating, but even it is no match for the totality of who you are. From just the few times I quickly skimmed through your social media, I learned about your Trader Joe's boycott, your dancer mother, I learned that your husband does not like to be recorded when he's playing video games like a prepubescent teen, I learned that you enjoy spoken word and wine, and above all else, I learned that we're destined. What are the odds that two former New Yorkers would meet and live directly next to each other?

This was destined. When I saw you yanking the Trader Joe's bags out of your trunk, it was as if God himself, the cynical bastard, caused you to drop one of the bags on the concrete pavement of your driveway. I heard the expletive part your pink fluffy lips, and I watched as you looked around awkwardly to make sure no one had seen your misfortune. But I had.

I ran out quickly to your aid, and at first you didn't notice me. It wasn't until I knelt down in front of you and grabbed the now ripped carton of broken egg shells that you looked up at me and chuckled.

"Ironic that I have butter fingers, and butter is the ONE thing I forgot at the store." your voice was slightly raspy, almost as if you were hoarse.

"Butter?" I repeated in faux-disbelief. "You're definitely not a California girl."

"What gave it away?" You said before taking the carton from me and then smiling. "Thanks, by the way." You stood up straight, allowing a hint of your cleavage to show through. Your silver locket dropped perfectly in its crease, and you pulled back your jet black hair and then took a deep breath. "I'm probably a few weeks behind here, but welcome to the neighborhood. We'll just pretend that this meeting is actually me ringing your doorbell and handing you a perfectly baked glazed lemon cake."

Your teeth were aligned so strategically, almost as if they were false, but they weren't. Your hair was a stark contrast to your pale blue eyes.

"I'll take it." I told you, with a casual shrug. "I'm Joe, by the way."

Your eyes glimmered and widened for a brief moment, almost as if you were intrigued, and then you chuckled again. "Well that's a coincidence. I'm Josephine, but everyone calls me Joey."

It was then that I heard a voice from my front porch. "Joe...did you move the step ladder again?"

Love's voice, though sometimes calm and soothing was no match for yours. In fact, I hadn't noticed how annoying her voice could be until that very moment. I turned around to her. "It's uhh, it's in the laundry room." I responded, before correcting myself. "And I thought we discussed this. You're like 14 months pregnant, so no ladders for you."

I saw Love smile a little, but I also noticed her eyes studying yours. She looked you up and down for a brief second, and then with a polite nod, she greeted you.

And there you were, with all of your unknowing cordiality, waving your hand, seemingly excited to finally get to formally meet your new neighbors.

"Well, I should get back, Joey."

She smiled. "Pleasure meeting you, Joe without the Y."

The fact that Joe has no Y in the first place was enough to make me giggle at her silliness, and I turned to walk away from you. I didn't want to, but I knew there was more to come of this. Fate wouldn't have brought you to me only to rip us apart.


End file.
